


Massacre

by gwill424



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Drop Site Massacre, Horus Heresy, Iron hands, Istvaan V, Warhammer 30k - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwill424/pseuds/gwill424
Summary: The galaxy is aflame. Horus Lupercal has exposed himself to be the Archtraitor. After purging their legions of those unswervingly loyal to Terra, Horus and his co-conspirators have traveled to Istvaan V to await the Emperor's return strike. It arrives in the form of seven of the remaining loyal legions. The Iron Hands, Ravenguard, and Salamanders have come to enact vengeance, supported by the Iron Warriors, Word Bearers, Night Lords, and Alpha Legion. But their allies have a dark secret, their primarchs aligned with the traitorous Warmaster with dark pacts. Caught between two fronts, the result is bloody massacre. Janus Zebb is an Iron Father of the Iron Hands and captain of Clan Company Agulaar. He bears witness to the slaughter firsthand, and in the chaos attempts to rescue those of his brothers that he can and escape off world before death claims them all. Will Zebb be successful in his endeavors or will he and his Clan simply be amongst the countless casualties to be recorded at day's end?





	Massacre

The space over Istvaan V rippled and danced at a hundred different points as thousands of vessels broke from the Warp and settled into orbit. They were might bastions of dominance and power with armored prows, sweeping buttresses and weapons batteries that bristled with the ire of their crews. They came prepared for war, each fleet bearing the colors and heraldry of seven different Astartes legions. They were the Emperor’s judgement, here to exact bloody vengeance upon the Warmaster for his crimes against the Imperium. News of Horus’ betrayal had washed through the loyal legions like wildfire, stoking within every Astartes a righteous fervor for retribution. The Warmaster, and those that stood with him, would rue the day they turned from the Emperor’s side.

The strike cruiser  _ Adamantium _ broke into realspace with the rest of the Iron Hands flotilla. Her hull was pitted and scarred, the paint scraped and worn. There had been no time to repair the damage done by the 28th Expeditionary Fleet, but that mattered little. The Iron Hands had always worn their wounds like badges of honor. Their ships were no different.

Captain Leonard Hasp sat in his command throne, chin resting on his knuckles. The hololith display bathed the bridge around him in a muted green glow. The light reflected in the silver trim of the Iron Father’s armor next to him. Janus Zebb was silent, as he ever was. Like the vast majority of his legion, the Iron Father spoke only when words would be of value. Hasp liked that about him. With grey hair, a square jaw, and an uncompromising gaze, Leonard Hasp had been told on multiple occasions that he would have fit right in as an Astartes of the Iron Hands. But void warfare had called long before the opportunity to rise to the ranks of super soldier had and Hasp now made combat through sensorum relays and gun-cam footage.

“I have never seen such a panoply of war,” Hasp admitted, his voice low. “Seven legions and all of their support craft. It is….”

“Humbling?” Zebb finished.

“A word,” Hasp agreed.

\----

Organizing such a massive invasion force took incredible skill and understanding. One misstep in this ballet of giants could cause untold casualties and bring iron and fire raining down upon Istvaan long before any gun was fired. Ferrus Manus has been up to the challenge. The primarch of the Iron Hands had been given supreme command by none other than the Emperor Himself. If anyone was capable of the task at hand, if anyone was able to comprehend the subtleties of war in its most basic form, even on a scale such as this, it was the Gorgon.

Manus took to planning the coming war with the fervor of a man possessed. Zebb suspected he would not have been nearly so furious had Fulgrim’s betrayal not cut him so deeply. Horus and Manus had always maintained the respect due to fellow warlords, but Horus’ treachery would have been met with the cold calculating war machine the Tenth Legion had come to be known as. Fulgrim’s however, had been a knife in the back in more ways than one. The choleric ire that the Gorgon had been famed for tempering had bubbled to the fore of his mentality with an unquenchable vigor. Zebb had understood even then that nothing would be resolved until either Fulgrim or Ferrus Manus lay dead.

“Brothers.” Manus’ voice carried the steely edge of the forge. “You know why we are here so I will forgo the pleasantries.” Manus was not a diplomat. He was a blacksmith, a warrior, a strategist, and a conqueror. He was not a politician. And he would not insult his brothers by pretending to be one now.

They stood around him, holo-projections all that flickered in and out with the faint hiss of static. Vulkan, Corax, Curze, Perturabo, Lorgar, and elusive Alpharius. They were all as different as any set of brothers could be, and yet the same blood of their father beat in their veins. They stared at Manus with hard eyes and cold lenses. “It has been decided that we will land our forces in two waves. Myself, Corax, and Vulkan will be the first wave, and the rest of you the second, held in reserve until you are needed for support.”

A tactical display of the battlefield, an expanse of sunken ground marked as the Urgall Depression, appeared before the gathered primarchs and began to slowly rotate. Red sigils marked where Horus and the rest of their traitorous kin had taken refuge on the far side of the Depression. “The vanguard will land here, along this line. The Ravenguard will cover the right flank. Vulkan, your Salamanders will have the left. I will take my legion and drive straight up the center.” None commented on how that would put the Iron Hands on a collision course with Fulgrim’s Third.

“And the reserves?” Alpharius asked. His voice was soft, like a serpent’s. His question earned him a sideways glance from the Urizen, but Manus appeared not to notice.

“The main landing zone will be here, several kilometers behind the vanguard units.” More sigils and ident-runes flickered into being on the map. “Army units and Legio elements will land once the vanguard has secured their position. Their deployment will shore up the bulwarks between the enemy and our reserves. You should be able to land uncontested, brothers.”

All four primarchs seemed pleased, smiling or nodding their assent to Manus’ assessment of the situation. “We are grateful to you three for shouldering the brunt of this task,” Lorgar said, his words carefully chosen and as smooth as honey. “That you would sacrifice so that we-”

“Save your words, brother,” Corax said, “We know why we do this. We know why it must be us.” Vulkan and Manus nodded their agreement. Lorgar gave the Raven a smile, the warmth of which did not meet his eyes.

“See to your legions,” Manus said, voice sharp. “That is all that remains.” One by one, the primarchs offered each other the sign of the Aquila and winked out of existence, their holofeeds cut. Manus remained rooted to the ground until he stood face to face with Vulkan alone. The Gorgon cocked a brow. “You have something to say, brother?”

Vulkan smiled but, like Lorgar, the warmth did not carry to the rest of his features. It was a strange smile for a being typically possessed of good humor. His red eyes bored into Manus like dying coals. “I would speak my mind for a moment,” he admitted. “If the great Iron Lord would allow it.”

“I do not like formality, Vulkan. You know this. Speak freely.”

“I know what this means to you. What Fulgrim means to you,” Vulkan began. Each word was chosen carefully and possessed as much respect as the Salamanders’ primarch could measure. He was fearful of arousing Manus’ ire and losing his attention. If that ire was boiling, Manus showed little of it for now. “You are one of the greatest of us, Ferrus. You have always been an incredibly skilled warlord, and your tally of victories would put any commander to shame. You have always approached war with a logic and reason behind your strategies, taming the volcano that i know resides in your heart.” 

At this, Manus cracked a smile. “You would know of volcanoes, Fire Drake.”

Vulkan allowed his own smile to break, his teeth stark white against his ebony flesh. “My advice, brother, would be to keep it tamed. Do not allow your feelings towards Fulgrim endanger yourself here this day. We have already lost four brothers this day. I would lament a fifth.”

“Your concern is appreciated,” Manus replied. He bowed his head. “I will not disappoint you, nor will I disappoint our father. Of that, you can be sure.”

Vulkan allowed his smile to grow, seemingly appeased by Manus’ words. His form flickered and static crawled across his features. Then he winked and disappeared, leaving Ferrus Manus alone in the dark.

\----

Tark Urlaan regarded himself in the mirror. His reflection stared back through cold, dark eyes set above a fighter’s nose. His pale flesh was pocked and puckered with the black interface sockets that lined his limbs, chest, and back. Pink scars wound across his skin, each on telling the story of a different victory. He had gained them all in defense of his primarch, for he was a Morlock, named for the ferocious beasts that roamed Medusa’s frozen tundras. He was the iron tip of the Gorgon’s spear. He was Medusa’s shield. He was the hammer and he was the anvil and there were none who could stand against him and hope to survive.

And yet, as Urlaan stood before the mirror, studying every crack and crevice on his superhuman body, he could not fathom why his gut twisted in unease.

Perhaps it was the notion of spilling the blood of his own kind. Horus’ treachery, and Lord Fulgrim’s betrayal ensured that for the first time in history Astartes would be pitted against Astartes in a conflict far beyond the scope of petty honor duels and meaningless sparring bouts. Horus had ended an age, and Urlaan wasn’t convinced the coming one would be enjoyable.

The swish of robes broke his reverie and Urlaan turned to find a serf making its way through the darkness towards him, red eye glinting. The serfs of the Iron Hands, like the warriors of their legion, enjoyed much of mechanical augmentation when compared to those of other legions. Aionak had served Urlaan for the better part of five decades. He had once been an aspirant, but a blood disease had ensured he would never survive the transformation to Astartes. He now served the legion as best he could, the filters and transfusers grafted to his back keeping him alive when the poisons his body produced naturally would have killed him years ago. Perhaps it was because he was acutely aware of his own mortality, but Aionak always had a positive attitude about him, as if every new day were a gift he intended to make the best of. It was why Urlaan kept him around. Aionak grounded him in ways nothing else ever could.

“My lord.” Aionak’s voice hissed across cracked lips like a dying desert wind. “You have been staring into that mirror for over an hour now. Have you discovered anything new about yourself or have you simply developed a vanity to rival….” Aionak wheezed and the end of his sentence died in his throat. Urlaan knew what he was going to say regardless. But some wounds were still to fresh. Urlaan could not say he ever held any love for the Third, but he had respected them.

“To rival Fulgrim?” Urlaan asked, finishing his attendant’s sentence. There was no judgement in his voice, no cutting edge. Just cold certainty. Aionak simply nodded. “I was simply thinking, Aionak. About what is to come.”

“War is to come, lord,” Aionak replied. “War always comes. It is what the legion was bred for.”

Urlaan paused. There was a simple wisdom in the serf’s words. He was unsure if Aionak was able to truly grasp the changes gripping the galaxy now, but perhaps that was to his benefit. His perspective allowed for judgement untainted by all that Urlaan had witnessed. He was going to war, the same as he had, the same as he always would. It steeled his heart. “Thank you, Aionak. Was there something you wanted?”

The wizened man smiled. “Only to inform you that the armorers are waiting.”

\----

_ Adamantium _ was abuzz with activity. Her launch bays were crowded with flight crews and the smell of fuel oil and incense choked the air as red robed tech-adepts performed the final rites necessary before the Thunderhawks would take off and the bays would empty. Iron Father Janus Zebb was among them, tending to machine and man alike with equal care. His position within the legion meant that he was both techmarine and chaplain rolled into one, capable of soothing the spirits of man and machine and, when necessary, join the two in holy union.

Sparks flew from the plasma cutter mounted to one of her servo arms, casting Zebb in flashes of white as he finished welding an armor panel to the underside of  _ Anshar’s _ fuselage. She was a Stormbird, Sokar pattern, and one of Zebb’s prized possessions. She was named for some sky deity that was ancient when Terra was ancient. Capable of deploying an entire strike force by herself,  _ Anshar _ had ferried the Iron Father into countless wars, serving as his command vessel and air support. She was his, and he refused to let any other hand work on her without his direct supervision.

“Iron Father?” Zebb looked up, his augmetic eye whirring. Brother Raan stood before him, hands clasped together in front of his chest. “A moment of your time?”

“Of course, Raan.” Zeb pushed himself out from beneath  _ Anshar _ and stood. His servo arms folded neatly behind his back and Rylus, his servo-skull, descended from overhead to perch upon his shoulder. “What is it you need?”

“Council, Iron Father.” Raan looked at Rylus. His helm was an impassive mask but underneath it he worried at his lower lip. “What we are about to do is…”

“Necessary,” Zebb replied. His voice was soft and kind, as a spiritual guide’s should be in these situations. “We all feel the unease, the uncertainty of what this war will mean. It is unlike anything we have ever experienced before and yet it is exactly the same. They are another foe that needs destroying.” He held up his palms, the metal of his artificial hands glinting in the hard light from the lumin strips overhead. “And we, as ever, are to be the instruments of that destruction.”

“But these are our blood-kin,” Raan continued. “I apologize, Iron Father, but I simply cannot see myself excelling in the coming engagement with such unresolved-”

“Raan?” Zebb cut him off, musing. “Do you recall Hethican IX?”

Raan blinked beneath his helm. “Hethican? Yes, Iron Father.” Hethican had been a trial in compliance some fifty years prior. Perpetually wracked by typhoons and hurricanes, navigating Hethican’s atmosphere had been a challenge at worst, and nigh impossible at best. To make matters worse, Raan had been a recently elevated brother and his Xiphon had one of the more bellicose machine spirits he had ever encountered at the time. Fighting it and the winds had been excruciating. The cherry on top had been their foes. He still wasn’t sure what they had been, even after all these years. They were grotesque, bulbous, and bloated. They had reminded Raan of giant flies, but they did not move like flies. They flickered in and out of reality like ghosts, vanishing in the rain only to reappear somewhere else a heartbeat later to spit corrosive acid from their long snouts. He had made ace during that campaign. He’d also been shot down for the first time. He continued to have mixed feelings about it.

“Do you remember what you told me before you climbed into the cockpit that day?”

Raan looked down at his boots. “I was excited. It was my first campaign as a squadron leader. I was anxious to prove myself.”

“You were. You  _ did _ . So…” Janus put a hand on Raan’s shoulder. “I think the same sort of motivation is required.” Raan cocked his head. “Don’t let me down, Wing Commander.”

For a moment, Raan was stunned, jaw flapping open and shut inside his helmet. Then he straightened and snapped off a salute, lacing his knuckles together in the sign of the cog. “I will not, Iron Father. Thank you.”

Zebb watched Raan retreat towards his waiting interceptor. Launch sirens wailed and catapults shook the deck as the first squadrons were launched into the void. The traitor’s fleets had put up almost no fight, choosing instead to retreat to the far side of Istvaan instead of contesting orbital control. It would make the initial invasion that much easier, but Zebb was wary. Horus was no fool. The Warmaster wanted them to make landfall. But why?

Rylus beeped overhead, red eye flashing. He dropped low, buzzed around Zebb’s head once, and then zipped off up  _ Anshar’s _ loading ramp. The Iron Father watched him go before following up in. The sound of his boots ringing on the steel ramp was drowned out by another launch. As he stepped into  _ Anshar’s _ cargo bay, Zebb looked upon the panoply of war. It was such a small fraction of that which would be unleashed upon Istvaan’s surface and yet he had subjugated worlds with less. How could Horus and his fallen brethren hope to stand against it? War was a numbers game, and the numbers were seven legions against four. Zebb strapped himself into a landing harness, listening as  _ Anshar’s _ engines powered up, and rested comfortably in the knowledge that the numbers were on their side.

\----

The skies of Istvaan V lit with fire. Fighters, gunships, bulk landers, and interceptors filled the atmosphere without number. The violence of such massive atmospheric entry reflected in the storm clouds that sprung out of nowhere and flashed with angry lances of lightning. Drop pods broke through those clouds, garbed in black, silver, and green as the vanguard legions made their entrance. The struck the dark earth, kicking up fountains of black sand before their hatches released and their payloads disembarked. Landing zones were established quickly, and dropships and landers adjusted their trajectories to settle on the ground.

Zebb strode from  _ Anshar _ , peering around. He watched Iron Hands establish bulwarks and trenchworks, erect pre-fab barricades, and wave in more and more Thunderhawks. In the distance the Iron Father could make out the enemy lines. They were dug in and prepared for a fight. They would not be disappointed.

A voice boomed out over the chaos. Zebb recognized it as his primarch’s in an instant. Ferrus Manus stood head and shoulders above his sons. He set about the work needed, dirtying his silver arms alongside them, leading by example and pulling weight for the sake of expediency. It was a joy to watch him work, to see his mind working and his hands make those workings reality. Zebb had often tried to follow his father’s train of thought but even of the mechanically augmented, Ferrus Manus operated on a level of thought that far outclassed even the most mentally strong of his sons. It was inspiring, and Zebb resolved then and there that he would do his best to see the day won.

Overhead, thunder rolled.


End file.
